


tales to tell back on shore

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Clothing Kink, M/M, Platonic Sex, i mean it's romantic if you squint, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29480916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: george brings the silver fern back to europe.
Relationships: George Bennett/Sam Bewley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	tales to tell back on shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magliarosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magliarosa/gifts).



> i literally began writing this between the finish of the nz road nats and the podiums, crying all the while because georgie deserves this so much ;-; cannot wait for the next poddy episode, sam and dan are going to be so proud of their boy and i'll lose my shit
> 
> for magliarosa because they're a saint for listening to me talk about george all the dang time
> 
> title from six months in a leaky boat by split enz, my personal favourite kiwi band. you're either a split enz person or a crowded house person and you can't be a fence sitter on this

It's late, and George is still running on New Zealand time when he buzzes in to Sam's building. He knows it’s silly, wearing his new jersey like this, second place medal heavy in his hand as he climbs the stairs and knocks on the door of Sam’s apartment.

Sam looks tired, like he’s stayed awake waiting for George, dressed barely a step up from pyjamas, but he still beams at George when he opens the door, taking in the fern splashed across George’s chest.

“Sorry I let you down, I could only get second in the TT,” he says, and Sam pulls him in for a tight hug, silver crushed between them, forgotten if not for its cold press in George's hand.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Sam says into George’s shoulder, and shuts the door behind them before tilting his head and kissing George’s neck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you dipshit,” Sam says affectionately, pulling back to face him, and his eyes soften. “I knew you could do it.”

George feels his face go hot, and he tries to hide his smile as he avoids Sam’s gaze. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“Georgie,” Sam says, and the nickname makes George’s stomach flutter. “I knew you’d win.”

George lets himself smile properly now, lets his pride for himself come out in the safety of Sam's apartment, and Sam kisses him, still smiling.

"What are we still doing here?" George asks, breathless. "Your doorway doesn't seem like a good place to celebrate to me."

He lets Sam lead him inside properly, spying a bottle of sparkling wine on the kitchen counter as Sam keeps going, past the couch and into the bedroom, and it's only when George has his back up against Sam's door that he lets himself feel - his pulse, his breathing, and the growing hardness in his pants.

"Sam Bewley," he breathes, "are you trying to seduce me?"

“I thought I’d already done that,” Sam replies.

The kiss this time is staggering, earth-shattering, knocks George's knees out from under him, and he's so thankful that Sam is there to cling to, solid as a rock, as he always is. George relishes the scrub of proper facial hair against his own shadow of stubble, the teeth running against his lower lip, the hand palming him through his shorts. He follows gladly when Sam guides him to the bed, letting him roll them over so George is underneath.

Sam traces over the fern, fingertips warm and gentle, like he’s trying to memorise the design he already knows so well.

“C’mon, take it off me, Sam, _please_ ,” George whines, arching up into the touches Sam leaves over the fabric.

Sam slides the zipper down slowly, exposing George’s chest, tanned from his weeks out on the beach in New Zealand, and stops.

“You look really good in the fern,” Sam says, louder and more clearly than George is expecting. “Keep it on?”

George rolls his eyes - of course this is a thing - and nods, reaching up for the hem of Sam’s t-shirt. Sam helps, pulling it off when George reaches his chest and pulling down the waistbands of his sweatpants and boxers in one go. George fumbles with the ties on his shorts, feeling desperately clumsy, and Sam tugs them down, exposing the tent in his briefs.

George obligingly tilts his head as Sam kisses his neck again, nips gently at his collarbone, makes his way down George’s chest with his mouth, and George giggles when Sam’s facial hair and lips brush over his stomach.

Sam looks up at him, a question unasked between them, and George nods.

The first touch of Sam’s lips to the head of his dick through the fabric is soft, teasing, and George lets himself relax into it, obligingly lifting his hips when Sam tugs on the waistband of his briefs and lets him pull them down.

George reaches awkwardly over to the nightstand and manages to grab the lube, passing it down to Sam, and he wonders if Sam deliberately left it out or if they forgot about it before George left. He hears the cap pop, hears the sound of Sam slicking his fingers up, and feels the gentle press of fingertips against him, then into him.

Sam knows George’s body well - well enough to know how to curl, stretch, scissor his fingers in the ways that make George squirm and swear, until he pants out, “Sam, fuck, I’m ready, I’m good,” as he sits up and pushes Sam down by his shoulder onto his back, head precariously close to the foot of the bed.

He's sure his still-recovering thighs are going to regret this, but George straddles Sam's hips anyway, steadying himself on Sam’s chest and lowers himself down, sighing at the stretch. Sam is warm where their skin meets, comforting, hips fitting snugly under George's when he bottoms out.

"Fuck, George," Sam breathes, hands skating up from George's hips under the jersey, thumbs caressing his chest as he moves.

Sam’s cock, George thinks, is perfect to sit on like this, thick and hot and hard as he grinds down. Sam’s looking up at him with something in his eyes that George can’t place, face flushed and mouth slightly parted as his hips try to match George’s rhythm, touching like he’s undecided what parts of George he wants to feel. George shifts his hips slightly, tries for faster, and he knows he’s getting loud now, but it’s good, it’s great, he doesn’t care because he’s finally getting the pressure that he wants, that he needs, that pulls him tighter and draws him closer to splintering, breaking, coming to pieces.

His thighs burn, but he's so close, craving contact with Sam, folding forward to reach his chest and his face and his mouth, kissing clumsily as Sam's hands on his hips guide him through the last thrusts, and George buries his face in Sam's shoulder and moans.

"Please, Sam, Sam, _please_ ," he begs, and he's finally coming between them, shaking apart on top of Sam. There's another one, two, three sharp movements into him, and George feels Sam come, hot and slick inside him.

Sam does his best to roll them over gently, and the jersey falls open again as he carefully pulls out. George feels disgusting, but in a good way - dishevelled and sticky, stretched wide, covered in both of their messes.

“Hang on a second,” Sam says, and George is all jelly-legged and empty, so he just nods and waits as Sam leaves the room.

He returns with a damp cloth in one hand, and the bottle of sparkling - prosecco, George can now see - with two glasses in the other. He sets the drinks on the nightstand, and climbs back into bed next to George.

"So this is still the placeholder jersey, yeah?" Sam asks, moving it slightly to clean George up.

"Mm-hm. They're doing up my real one." It's his, he realises. His for a year, at the very least.

Sam hums, throwing the cloth in the direction of the doorway, and passes George the bottle. “Cheers, babe. I’m proud of you.”

Popping it is less messy this time - George makes sure of that, he’s conscious of Sam's sheets - but pouring is not easy, and George dangerously overfills both glasses. The resulting _clink_ is cautious, but the following drink is satisfying.

Sam pulls George in to his side, one arm over his shoulders, other resting the base of his glass on his thigh. "Can I fuck you in your real kit?" he asks, too casually for the question to feel serious.

"Depends if you ask nicely," George answers in lieu of a _yes._


End file.
